


Stop At the Beginning (Your Lines are Missing)

by LuciferIsSatan



Series: Don't Forget Your Lines [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Canonical Character Death, Emotionally Compromising Situations, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mild Language, attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:48:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3725944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciferIsSatan/pseuds/LuciferIsSatan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was supposed to be dead, he knew that. He was supposed to be in a haze of nothingness or whatever happened once someone died; he wasn't supposed to wake up. He was never supposed to wake up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop At the Beginning (Your Lines are Missing)

**Author's Note:**

> A continuation of Start From the End (Repeat Your Part Again), so if you haven't read that, please do-- It's a sort of optional ending, seeing as I've gotten quite a few messages and ask's wanting to make up for that terrible ending. (And some people said that they felt there should have been more, so this is to those of you who felt that way.)
> 
> The Aftermath (the first story stands alone-- as I said, this is an optional end, and as to why I didn't place it onto the first story.) Also, hopefully, less sad than the first, right? 
> 
> _There are an infinite amount of ways that the ending of the first story could have played out, and this is simply just one way. And isn't at ALL set in stone_ \-- Also, self-beta'd, apologies.

When his eyes fluttered open, he knew for a fact that they shouldn't have.

He didn't know where he was, he didn't know why, and he didn't care. He was supposed to be dead, he wasn't supposed to be here anymore; not after the Winchesters offed him. Not after that. Where was that floating abyss he so deserved after so many failed attempts at reaching for it? He's done a great deal of tortures in his time, he's done a lot of terrible things, but nothing he's ever committed, no crime too severe or cruel, for him to deserve this.

Hell couldn't even hold a torch to the sort of realities he's been through, couldn't even hold it's chin up high in comparison.

He wished he could take back _whatever_ it is he did to..-to _whomever_ it was that was.. that was _causing_ this- this _nightmare_ \- he wanted to fix whatever he had broken so that this hell would end. However, he couldn't even be for sure it was even a _person_ doing this to him-- and even if it was, perhaps they didn't even have a reason. It wasn't the Djinn-- no matter how much that made sense to begin with, no matter how much he had actually clung to that explanation, it was just another cover up. It wasn't that _whole_ lifetime previous he lived in, no matter how much he wished it had been, and no matter how _real_ it felt; because waking up proved it was just another life; another time line to throw him off before sending him back into this never ending loop.

Right when things were finally settling down, and he had finally come to grips with what was happening. Something had to break and twist and rip him apart, _toying_ with him before throwing him back in the fire.

It wasn't fair.

Jesus _fuck_ it wasn't fair.

It wasn't fair that Bobby never remembered, it wasn't fair that he had to watch him die, and it wasn't fair that he just _couldn't_. If anything, he wanted to forget, and live through this ongoing loop as if it were his first time existing, and every day before that life never existed, simply because he couldn't remember it. Maybe that's what happened to Bobby, maybe he could remember at first, but he's been in the jumble for so long he's forgotten; or perhaps he was never meant to remember, and perhaps he wasn't either, but there had been a glitch somewhere along the lines.

Maybe he was being delusional, and this was his punishment for a crime he can't remember committing.

He didn't know what it was, and he's thought about it for countless years and countless lifetimes, and he was just so tired of it.

He was just so tired of living like this.

He was so tired of living alone.

Crowley knew that it didn't matter if Bobby was with him or not, it didn't matter because no matter how much he tried to will him to recognize everything they've done and everything he's sacrificed; he would not and could not remember him, and sometimes that realization felt worse than dying. It didn't matter how he's been able to convince him they've been doing this dance for centuries, because in the next he knows that it was all for nothing, because the other still won't recall.

He's just another face to the old hunter, and he's come to grips with this some centuries ago. He's long since given up trying.

Crowley stretched out his arms with a simpering sigh, putting a whole new meaning to stiff upper lip as he tried to hold back the stinging in his eyes. He could get through this, he's always been able to survive these trials, mostly because he knew he never had a choice to begin with. So, he did as he always did, tried to figure out who he was, and where; his fingers outstretching to the soft silk sheet's he was lying on, letting the tips brush over the gentle fabric.

He heard a gentle sigh to his left, and when he glanced over he saw a woman with soft dark, and bare skin, lying on her side and facing away from him. Crowley eyed her a moment, and wondered briefly if she was his hunter, but because he couldn't tell who she was, he simply assumed she wasn't.

Crowley had always been able to tell the difference, he didn't see why all of that would stop now.

He placed his hands over his chest and down his hips as he tried to get an idea of what he looked like, and found that the rest of him was covered in the same soft robes. There were jewels on his fingers and around his neck, and when he brushed his hand over his head, he realized that he didn't have any hair; he was in ancient Egypt, and he seemed to be playing royalty.

There were engravings along the walls and as he stood, he could hear the shouts of people down below. 

He lived longer than what was natural for people in that time, but not once did he see Bobby.

Lives ticked away, some long and some short, and it took around the twentieth or twenty-first, to realize that he hadn't seen his hunter once. He thought it odd, but tried to brush it off as he continued his silent search for him; after his fortieth life, he began to realize that maybe he no longer existed.

He was struggling to remember his voice, and thought back to the room they last shared together, with icing on their faces and the birthday he never got to celebrate. He thought about Castiel and how suddenly Bobby no longer felt right anymore; how the room faded, and his head hurt, and he recalls that to be the last image he had of him.

Something sat uneasily in his gut with that fact, festering in his chest and making him wonder just how real any of this was. If Bobby was ever real to begin with.

Yet he'd shake the notion from his head, and reassure himself that he _was_ real, and he _was_ there, but now he's not and he can't help but wonder why.

Crowley never really stopped looking for him, his eyes jumping from face to face and yet none of them were familiar. From Paris to Germany, and ancient Mesopotamia, and yet he was never around. He couldn't decide what was worse; having Bobby never remember him, or not having him at all-- Crowley didn't know what made him feel more alone, but he knew which one frightened him the most. 

He was in Ancient Rome, and he made pottery for a living; his art brought people from all around, yet his life was a simple one, but it was his life, and it was nicer than the rest. He had an apprentice whose name was Blasius, who was young and naive and had a soft spot for story telling, and Crowley was more than pleased to give him his fill; often time finding himself on the receiving end as the other enthusiastically waved his hands around and told fables of gods, and demi-gods, and would be gods, and for some odd reason, Crowley sometimes wondered why these stories sounded so familiar.

They were colleagues, which turned to a friendly sort of an acquaintance, to good friends within the course of a year; he had even attended the boys wedding and sometimes they'd find themselves telling the same sort of stories years later, over a fire as Crowley's fragile, worn hands were mending to his pots, and the other was away from his wife for the night.

The look in his eyes was familiar, but Crowley could never place it, and yet he never went to question why.

-

He worked as an agent in an Organization funded by Pharmaceutical Company's against Bio-weapon Terrorism. He worked to fight against Bioterrorism, and the organization's goal is to train elite teams of individuals to fight, maintain, and destroy the ever evolving threat of Bio-weapon's and sudden increase's of B.O.W's, which were Bio Organic Weapons, or, more specifically, genetically created monsters.

Probably one of his more interesting lives, needless to say.

He was the captain of Alpha team, and they were flying into New Vegas, which had been evacuated and abandoned years ago due to radioactivity increase levels over the years. There had been rumours flying about that there had been sudden influxes in the radiation levels here, that it was believed that there has been nuclear testing in the area.

Evidently, it was no rumour when they landed.

It was quiet at first, the casino they landed by had a wall cave in and the ceiling had been falling apart, but the place looked untouched. The area around it was undisturbed, and Crowley was planning on this check up to be _run of the mill_ , a quick in and out before heading back, but he couldn't have been more wrong.

There was a growl and a snap and one of his men was suddenly missing, there were gunshots and blast's, but there was something in there with them that they just couldn't see. More men began falling off as they went deeper, more shots were sounded off, and soon they were running low on supplies- backup wouldn't be there for another hour, and there was only ten of them left. 

One by one they were picked off, but Crowley went on. He stumbled upon an underground lab, and the halls were filled with B.O.W's; there were missing reports, and a flash of blond passing him from the doorway. Something was deeply off about someone being down here, but before he could react, there was another flash and he was pinned to the concrete wall with a slam, his gun flying from his grasp and a hand against his throat.

The movement was disorienting, but when his sight came back to him he was greeted by a sharp face; slick blond hair, pale thin lips, and maroon eyes that were in slits. It reminded him of a snake. The blond was smirking at first, before it fell from his lips, his brows furrowing a moment. He looked as if he was about to say something when there was a loud bang just down the hall, and the sound of gunshots ricocheting off the walls. The man cringed before dropping him, muttering under his breath, and in a moment, he was gone.

He ran into him again almost a year later, and found that he was the madman behind a string of viruses; his name started with either an A or an R, and ended with either a W or an S and for some reason Crowley was never sure of either. He would hear it, but it wouldn't sound quite right, as if he was never hearing it correctly. Regardless, he knew it didn't matter, he had to be stopped.

They met on coast's, and in the south, along beaches or in the frozen weather of Antarctica. Always fighting, and sometimes it felt like the bastard was playing with him, like he knew something he didn't and it was _infuriating_ but Crowley, for the life of him, didn't know why, or even what.

The charade ended after fifteen years of close calls and near Armageddons into a New Age, when the power went to his head and he tried to become a God. No bullet could finish him off, not when he was injected with a virus of his own devising, but after he'd been blown out of the sky, and not even by the agents own hand, he was lost to the explosion, and Crowley could never pin point exactly why it bothered him so much.

-

He was a dealer in 79 AD, visiting the city of Pompeii in his travels. The weather was nice, and the city was a bit dirty, but he felt more in his lane walking down the long streets, feeling more in his own speed with making deals with people.

Although he didn't know why it felt so natural to him.

He was good at it, needless to say. He was quick with his tongue and selling items and homes and ideals to anyone interested. His name was Antonius, but he preferred to be called Crowley-- thought it had a nice ring to it, although he wasn't sure for the life of him where he had heard it from.

He can remember being cut off mid-sentence when he first heard shouts around him, followed by a few collective screams from where he was sitting. Antonius had muttered under his breath and apologized to the man he was selling to before getting up from his current residence to see what the commotion was all about. People were gathered together in the street's, and they were all looking up, looks of concern and horror along their features. With a quirked brow, and a squint, he followed their collective gaze to see Mount Vesuvius smoking at the top. It was a black cloud falling from the tip, and he looked towards it curiously when he felt a pair of eyes on him.

Antonius let his eyes fall to see a dark haired, frumpy looking man staring at him with a curious gaze.

Their eyes locked when he heard the first eruption.

-

The grass felt soft against his bare feet, as the morning sun reflected against the moisture that built up overnight. Renée was carrying the woven basket that was holding their lunch, and Fergus was currently fussing over the blanket, trying to lay it out just right.

"It look's fine," he heard her say, and she was looking at him with bright amused eyes, setting the basket against the edge and taking a seat, tucking her dress under her legs as comfortably as she could manage.

"Say's you, love," he muttered back with a frown, but she simply giggled and pulled open the top of the woven basket and grabbed their glass plates from the top, setting them out in front.

"You've always been a bit of a fussy bastard," she smiled, and Fergus couldn't help but raise a brow at her, "I can still remember back in grade school when you used to play piano, and you'd swear under your breath until you got the hymn right."

Fergus shot her a confused look, "what are you talking about?"

Renée rolled her eyes, "you know, back in school! I would always doodle in class, and you'd always tell me that my lines were all messy," she paused in something that could only be described as thoughtful, dragging her fingers over the edge of her plate, "I remember you telling me, before we graduated, that you were just being hard on me because you knew I could do better," she pulled out the jam and set it down by her leg, "you were so sweet back then, not that you aren't _now_ , but you always used to look at me like-"

"Renée, darling," Fergus chuckled, cutting her off with a confused stare, "I think you might have me confused with someone else. We met at the library, remember?"

She paused then, her hands stilling above the basket before her brows pinched, "that can't be right."

"Besides, I've never played the piano, and you don't draw," he amended, "maybe it's just one of your dreams?"

Renée shook her head slowly, looking up at the man curiously, "I could have sworn-" her words died on her lips, where a frown soon formed. She didn't continue the thought, opting to pass out the rest of the food in thoughtful silence. She didn't say much the rest of the evening.

-

There were gunshots off in the distance, and Crowley listened closely against the wall of the attic, trying to decipher how close they really were. They had time, he figured, rounding the attic as quietly as he could, as to prevent the floor boards from creaking. There were Nazi's in his home earlier, and although things have gotten quiet downstairs, he still doesn't know for sure if they've gone.

"It's okay," he whispered to the dark corner of the room, "I believe they've gone, just-" he licked his lower lip, "just stay quiet, just in case."

An older gentlemen stepped out of the shadows, his dark clothes tattered and looking at the other man intently. "I'm sorry," he says after a moment, crouching down before seating himself against the wall the other was standing at, his voice a low whisper, "I never meant to get you involved."

"It's not your fault," Crowley responds, sitting down carefully besides the man, whose name is Joshah and was a fretful sort of man. Humble and kind, and was always a painfully honest Jewish man. They met by chance a few months back, and had fortunately ran into one another again once things began taking a turn for the worse a week or so prior. Crowley can't say he know's much about the man, but he know's he can't leave him out to be taken.

"It is my fault," Joshah insists, "You're a pure German, you know? You could be safe, but yet you choose to assist me. I can't help but wonder why."

Crowley scoffed, "A pure German doesn't exist," he glanced over at the man, "there's no such thing, just a piece of paper stating that I'm of complete German decent, doesn't mean much." _besides_ he thought to himself, _I'm not all that pure_ , and he had to remind himself that Joshah's eyes were not at his lips and he should look up there.

There's a smile there, amused or otherwise, Crowley couldn't say for sure, but he seemed pleased. "You're a good man, Anthony," the other states, "much better than many."

"Hey, the world's a crazy place," he amends, "just because we see the bad ones in power, doesn't mean there aren't a great many hiding around the corner," there's a weak chuckle, and then, "or hiding in the attic."

There's a soft laugh that touches the other man's lips, and he glances at the German, lips pursing and seemingly in thought. There was a long stretch of silence, before Crowley hears the soft peek in the other's breath, just before he begins to speak. "I can't help but think I've known you my whole life," he states, and it rather takes Crowley by surprise, "I feel like I've known you forever, and yet we've just met."

Crowley wished he knew what the other was talking about, yet, instead of questioning, he simply smiled, "who knows," he whispers, "maybe you have." And there's a look of thoughtfulness on the others features, like he trying to figure something out, and Crowley wished he could help him with that, but wouldn't know where to start.

They sit that way for hours, and the gunshots were dying but the boots returned. Never saying a word as he hears things crash just a floor below them, and doesn't pull away when he feels the other man interlock their fingers together. He couldn't tell whether it was out of fear, looking for reassurance, or if it was something else.

He never did get the chance to ask.

-

"My liege?" Crowley murmured carefully, turning his neck to give the other better access. The King made a soft humming sound, realizing that perhaps his earlier statement wasn't clear enough, but he didn't want to pull away from his handiwork just yet. His hands slipped over the other mans hips, his Adviser, squeezing his fingers against the soft flesh of his thighs, covered in his cloaks, before drawing his hands to pull at the ropes acting as his Adviser's belt.

His lips made a soft wet sound as they pulled away from the other's neck, his tongue pressing against his teeth as he leaned back. Crowley didn't have to see his reflection to know that his cheeks were a deep shade of scarlet, which wasn't helped by the Kings soft gaze over his face.

"I asked," he began slowly, not demanding or expecting, simply offering, "if you'd like to join me in my quarters."

Crowley blinked up at him, before a small smile touched his lips, "you didn't say all of it."

The King, if possible, looked sheepish, "if you'd like to join me in my quarters.. tonight," he breathed, pressing another kiss along his Adviser's face, "and every night after."

Crowley didn't respond in words, but instead pulled the man down into another kiss, their mouths moving together in a soundless tune before the King pulled away again, trying to catch his breath, before the other stole it away again. Their foreheads brushed, and the King lifted his hands to cradle his Adviser's face, and hopefully, soon to be lovers, to partner. "My moon and stars," he said slowly, his voice soft and quiet, "I can't remember a time before you."

"Neither can I," Crowley responded, eyes heavy, and heart fluttering. Although blissfully unaware of the implications the other was holding.

-

He cursed under his breath, his hands hitting his steering wheel in his frustration. It's just his luck for his car to break down in the middle of bleeding nowhere; he pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket, hoping to be able to dial his assistant Meg but found that it was dead. "Damn," he cursed under his breath, pursing his lips together and taking a look at just where he was. With a sigh his head hit his wheel, brushing his hands to his face and trying desperately to rub out his frustrations, but to no use.

Crowley glanced outside his window, letting his hands fall to his lap before trying to figure out exactly where he was. With a weary huff, he pulled his keys from the ignition, and pushed open his car door.

It was cool outside, the businessman noted, and the tree's were beginning to turn a soft orange. He probably would have spent more time admiring it, had he not been in such a rush. He needed to find help, but there weren't many options.

Crowley came across a few houses, but something told him to keep walking. Soon, he came across a large fence that seemed to go on a ways, scaling it until he found the entrance.

"Singer's Salvage?" He murmured under his breath. Just his luck too, it seemed. He pushed at the entrance of the gate, and stepped inside, seeing piles of cars sitting about, and something about this place struck him as familiar, but he couldn't put his finger as to why. Crowley tried not to think about it, spotting the house at the far end, he trailed his way up. Licking his lips, he knocked three times before letting his hands slip into his pockets.

It took a few moments, but soon the door opened, and man around his own age stood there, giving him a questionable look.

"Can I help you?" he asks, muttering carefully and eyeing him down suspiciously.

"Ah, yes," he answered, shifting a bit on his feet, "I've been in a bit of an accident."

-

There was always a war, Anthony thought bitterly to himself, always a war, always a battle, and always a fight. It's midday and he's cleaning his rifle, before the next battle were to come; General Washington was somewhere off, looking for a place to set up his tent, when they heard the first round of gunshots.

He doesn't know when it happened, or why, but the revolution had gotten a great deal more bloody than he would prefer.

They used to go at each other in rows, whatever happened to that? Now they were in tree's, and murdering the generals; they were hiding in the bushes and pulling out knives and shooting far from the actual battle.

His feet were up and he was running quickly to camp to warn the other's, but once he got there they were already on their feet. Some were reloading, other's were cocking their rifles and a few were rushing to put the rest of their things away.

Soon there was a horrific flash of red by his eye and a shout and soon all the men were scrambling to get their things together. A few men hit the ground with a sick heavy wet thud, and bodies were beginning to pile around.

More Red Coats burst through the tree's and Anthony was quick to start shooting, bullet's flying and hitting two men in the shoulder before doing a double take and getting one in the chest. His breathing was labored as he ran, trying to reload and stay out of the fire; he could hear leaves crunching and twigs breaking behind him, and he knew he was being followed. His heart skipped in his chest as he made a quick turn, but he quickly saw two of his own men fall to the ground and three more Red Coats emerging from behind.

His hand fumbled with his gun, trying to get the bullets into the barrel, but his hands were shaking and he dropped at least three bullets in his struggle. Looking down to see what he was doing was a big mistake, as his feet tripped over a fallen branch and he fell face first against a pile of wet leaves. Coughing, he quickly turned on his back, hands still fumbling with his gun as the Red Coat gained up on him, standing above him in moments with his gun drawn.

Fear struck him and left him frozen, eyes wide and staring down the barrel then at the stranger pleadingly, who still hadn't pulled the trigger. There was a disorienting moment where the Red Coat had his gun drawn, but Anthony watched as his face contorted and realization dawned on his features, lowering his weapon, "Crowley?"

Anthony stared up at him, his fear mixing with confusion. That wasn't his name.

There was a moment where the other man seemed conflicted, before redrawing his weapon.

He pulled the trigger without much thought and quickly ran off.

Anthony stared at the space the other had been standing, his eyes glancing over to the space next to his shoulder where the bullet had landed. Not missing the sound of voices disappearing after the shot went off.

-

He stood on the surface of the companies roof, not _his_ company per say, but just the company he currently worked at-- had been working at for some time; his arms were crossed and he leaning on the railing as he looked out over the city. The sun was just beginning to dip under the horizon, making the sky look red and orange, almost as if it were on fire, and he couldn't help but think it was somewhat poetic.

Fergus let his fingers drag over the cool metal under his arms, wanting to embed it in memory before taking in a sharp breath, filling his lungs as if it was going to be his last.

And in a way, it was.

Everything had been falling apart for years, and he knew it. It had only been getting worse once he gotten this blasted promotion. The companies putting too much faith in him, putting too much work and expectations on him, and he can't handle it; he was doing fine at first, honestly, he even believed he was going to be able to push through this.

Then, the nightmares started.

Flashes of a man. They all looked different, but Fergus had the impression that he was the same guy; couldn't for the life of him explain why that was, he just knew. He kept watching the man kill himself, kept watching him die. Burned alive, shot, maimed- overall, however, he'd see him stand on ledges, and sometimes he'd wonder if it was a sign. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe if he stopped drinking so much the dreams would go away and he'd be able to get some sleep for once, but something told him that maybe that wasn't it.

It could have been anything, and although he wasn't superstitious, having dreams of the same person over and over _had_ to means something.

And the fact that he always died, probably meant something too.

Maybe that's why he's here now.

Fergus exhaled slowly, his fingers itching for the pack of cigarette's he's got tucked away in his pocket, but fought the urge to pull one out. If this was going to be the last air he breathed, he figured he didn't want it to be through a filter. He tightened his fingers around the cool railing, and lifted himself up.

His foot caught under the lower railing, and he pushed up, climbing, until he was truly above everything.

He knew that doing this wasn't going to give him all the answers, he knew that standing up here wasn't going to tell him who that man is or why he kept slipping through his fingers. But he knew that after this, it was going to stop; everything was going to stop.

He didn't feel peaceful when he lifted his foot, stepping out into air with nothing to catch him, his next foot slipping and he was floating for only a moment.

There was a disturbing pause when his arm tugged and he looked up to see a flash of dark hair with a panicked look in their eye, hanging half way over the railing he'd just jumped from. He looked like a mad man, hanging over the edge and clinging to him as if letting him drop wasn't an option. The idiot actually believing he was saving him.

"Let go!" Fergus shouted at the man, his fingers slipping over the other's wrist and brushing over the other's sleeves in his struggle, "let _go_ of me, damn it!"

"Like _hell_ I will!" the man shouted, his voice sounding angry as his other hand reached down to join his first, pulling with his all as bringing the other man to safety. They collapsed on one another, and Fergus was screaming at him because he couldn't help it, and somehow this felt too familiar for him to place, but he _couldn't_ place it, much like he couldn't place any of his dreams or these vague impression's on him, and they made him feel all wrong, like _something_ was wrong.

Like something was wrong with _him_ , and it was driving him crazy.

"You _idiot!_ " Fergus screamed, "Do you have any idea what you've done? You should have just stood _back_ like-"

"Like before?" the stranger hissed, pushing himself to his feet so he was eye level with the other man.

Fergus faltered. Before? No, that can't be right..-

"Are you nuts? The _hell_ were you thinkin'? Jumping off a building?" the strangers face was contorted, his hands gesturing wildly to the edge but not just in anger. He looked scared, panicked, worried, "For fucks sake Crowley, I could've lost you again."

"Again?" Crowley? The name fell numbly from his tongue. He know's that name, doesn't he? No, he doesn't- he can't, he's never heard it before, he's almost certain. "Sir, I think you've got me mixed up with someone else," that would make sense as to why he felt to compelled to pull him back up, that is, if this stranger had mistaken him for his friend.

"What? No-" he scrunched up his nose, stepped forward almost pleadingly, "listen to me, _you're_ Crowley," and he stated it with such certainty it was unreal, "You were the King of Hell, and a pain in my ass, and you've been-" his words were failing him, and he looked as if he was struggling to find some way to explain all of this to him, but he couldn't. "You made a promise," he said after a moment, "you promised me that you weren't going to let me die alone," Fergus gave him an incredulous look, yet the stranger persisted, "and you kept that promise, over and over again, for thousands of lives," he faltered, looking at him almost desperately, "please, _please_ tell me you remember."

Fergus looked at him, nothing of what he was saying made any amount of sense. King of Hell? What sort of silly title was that?

"Look," Fergus snapped, "I don't know what your angle is, but clearly you're not well," he didn't exactly look like a psych ward escapee, but the determined look in his eyes was borderline insane, mostly because there was a calmness about it that shouldn't be with someone who just, quite literally, pulled a man off the edge.

There was a frustrated sigh on the man's lips, but it sounded almost helpless to his ears, "I waited too long," and Fergus wasn't sure if that statement was made for his ears, seeing at how softly the other had spoken them, his eyes glancing to his feet and turning slightly, his shoulders were slumped and his hand was at the back of his neck as he tried to get his thoughts in order.

"This would have been easier if I had listened to you before," he said a bit louder, " _God_ it's been years, but I should have listened to you when I pulled you from the train," Fergus blinked at him.

Train. Subway train. Five minutes.

"You were such a mess, it should have clicked, but it didn't. You're so different now," the stranger breathed, brushing his fingers up over his face as if he was trying to rub all of his frustrations away, "you're not the same flash bastard of a demon you were when we first met."

Crossroad demon's jumped into his mind, red eyes and black eyes and white eyes of all different levels; demons. He remembered demons.

The stranger must have realized he struck some sort of cord, because he blinked at him and kept pressing, "You helped avert the Apocalypse, with me and the boys. The Winchesters, Sam, Dean, and Castiel." Something told Fergus that this Castiel's last name wasn't Winchester, at least, not in blood, "You always used to bring, ah.. Craig over to the house, erm- the Salvage Yard, said it had to be aged twenty er-"

"Thirty years," Fergus heard himself say, his arms feeling numb, "been drinking it since grade school."

"And you've been keeping an eye on me," he finally said, "for a long, long time Crowley. Longer than I've been able to appreciate, and you-" he looked remorseful, guilty even, "you've kept your promise for so long," he moved forward slightly, and Fergus didn't back away, "I think it's about time I keep mine, yeah?"

There's a face that strikes Fergus in that moment; a dirty ball cap, and a trimmed beard who smells like cheap beer and motor oil who has a soft expression on his face, who already looked as if he's lived a million lifetimes, even if it had been just the one. He see's books on shelves, and scratches along bed frames, and a single oak desk, sitting in the middle of what used to be a living room.

"Bobby," and the name falls from his lips to quickly he nearly choked on it. There were arms around him before he realized it, and the face triggered more memories, and soon thousands of flashes were slamming into him and he almost forgot how to breathe; there was a cry on his lips and his cheeks were wet when he finally came too, and he didn't know when they had fallen to the ground, but he was on his knee's and Bobby had his arms around him so tightly he felt as if he might break.

"God, Crowley, I'm so fucking sorry-" Bobby's voice sounded choked, his face buried against the others neck, "I should have remembered, I should have known it was you, but I didn't and _God_ the things I put you through-"

Crowley wasn't coherent enough to come up with a response. All he could think about is how he finally had him back, and that this was _Bobby_ and he remembered and knew, and he wasn't going anywhere. That he was really him and Crowley cursed at himself for forgetting and letting his self pity swallow him up until he refused to remember. He couldn't stop thinking about how wonderful it was holding him again, and breathing him in, and that it was _him_.

Not someone who would leave him again, not someone who'd abandon him again.

Crowley hadn't felt at home in a long time, and it was the most exhilarating feeling having it wash over him once again.

Holding him again is the best he's felt since the first time Bobby kissed him, not including the kiss during the deal, but the first _real_ kiss. The one where he was sitting on the hunters couch, and he still can't for the life of him remember what they were talking about, but Bobby's face was lit up and he was talking excitedly about whatever it was that had happened to him. It had been such a good slow day, that Crowley had even offered to buy dinner because Hell didn't need him at the moment, and he didn't really want to leave the hunters side.

It was when the hunter had cornered him in the kitchen, looking nervous but went ahead with it anyways and Crowley can still remember how soft his lips were and how gingerly he cradled his face between his rough hands, his fingers brushing through his hair-- Crowley can still recall every emotion he felt flutter past him when it happened, and how quickly dinner was forgotten.

He was still crying and he didn't know how to stop, and he felt those gentle hands he's missed so dearly brush through the back of his hair, and could hear the hunter hushing him because he didn't know what else to do.

But it didn't matter, because Crowley had him back in his arms and he could cry freely because at least now he understands. 

And maybe now he won't have to face the hell of living these lives all alone.

-

"Bobby, darling, are you ready yet?" Crowley called up the stairs, adjusting the sleeves of his shirt, "We're going to miss our reservations!"

"Hold your horses, I'm comin'," the other muttered, quickly moving down the stairs. He was tugging uncomfortably at the collar of his shirt, and his tie was a complete mess, much to Crowley's distress.

"Robert, love, you are a grown man," he sighed, swatting the hunters fingers away from his collar, and began undoing the ungodly knot the other made, "you should know how to tie a Tie by now."

"We're on a bit of a tight schedule," Bobby replied, as if it were any sort of an excuse. Crowley pursued his lips, raising an unamused brow at the other man, before setting to straighten him out, bringing the tie to an even length and working his way on making a proper knot from the rather backwards angle.

"Excuses, excuses," he muttered, making a pleased sound once he got the knot right. He pushed it up to hug the other's throat, before flattening it down with his hand, trailing down to the other's belly. Crowley made a soft sound, which was that akin to a hum, as he straightened out the rest of the others suit.

Its been sixteen lives in counting, since the first time Bobby pulled him off of the edge. Sixteen lives where they found each other so quickly, and started out these new lives together; trying new things, traveling, or becoming native. They've been professors, usually, seeing as it's well paying and they both know quite a deal about the worlds history; seeing as they've lived through most of it.

Sixteen wonderful lives, and it's been the longest time that Crowley's ever actually felt content.

He was even able to convince Bobby to go to the opera with him on their anniversary.

"I don't know why you're dawdling so much," Crowley hummed, stepping back to admire his work, "you played Hamlet when it was first produced, if I remember correctly."

Bobby scowled at him, "you don't see me bringing up _your_ mistakes."

"That's because I've always taste, darling," Crowley chuckled, "besides, if it makes you feel better, I knew Shakespeare personally," he made a point to shudder, "I was able to convince him _not_ to publish his script _Moon and Stars_."

Bobby quirked a brow at him, "I've never heard of that one."

"You're welcome," Crowley shot him a look, before grabbing his wallet off of the nightstand. "Whose paying for dinner tonight?"

"I think I am," the hunter responded, scrunching up his nose, "I owe you from Paris, 1662,"

"I thought you already covered that?"

"No, that was Paris _14_ 62," Bobby reminded, "And next time we go out, you can pay."

"Ah, yes," the ex-demon looked over to him, squinting his eyes at him, "I think I owe you a drink from the 14th century."

Bobby squinted at him, "I'm almost positive you already took care of that."

Crowley shrugged, "Well, I was drunk throughout most of the 14th century, so I can't say for sure," Bobby chuckled, pulling at the cuffs of his sleeves before grabbing the keys off the hook by the door. Bobby held the door open for him as Crowley stepped out, and even though the ex-demon rarely noticed the little things, it was always the little things that made Bobby feel better for what he did.

There's no way he can make up for the thousands of years of hell he put Crowley through, so he's going to try and make the next thousand at least bearable for the other. He deserved at least that much.

Even when they still don't understand why this was happening or how, they were working through it and overall it wasn't so bad; even then, it was nice to know that they had something to look forward too. Even if a decent life isn't guaranteed, they're paving their own way, and at least for once, Bobby isn't going to let him face it alone.

He promised him, anyways.

**Author's Note:**

> I sneaked the beginning of State of Flux in here, in case you missed it. (Can you imagine how horrible that would be? That whole story just being one reincarnate life.) I won't be adding more to this story, and the rest is up for you to interpret. I do hope this makes up for everything. Even if it's a little rushed, and a bit short-- Anyways, thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed. ^^


End file.
